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Winter's First Storm |
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| Wednesday October 29, 2003 10:23 PM | |
For the past few mornings, Grace wakes up and immediately goes to the weather page of the newspaper. She dislikes the idea immensely, that her inner gypsy must wear a snowsuit - in order to go out trick or treating on Friday. Yesterday the meteorologists issued a severe snowfall warning for the area. Sure enough this morning, we woke to a thick blanket of snow and minus six degree temperatures. As I write, Andrew is out in the dark before dawn, shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. His energy and physical well-being continue to amaze us all. We went to the cancer clinic yesterday to hear the assessment of the chemotherapy that Andrew has been taking for the past two months. Dr. Forsyth is a straight shooter. His opening remarks were, “Mr. Wark, I don’t know how to say this easily, but your brain is not looking good.” The analysis of the latest MRI showed that Andrew has one crowded brain. The existing tumours are growing quite aggressively and there are so many new ones that the doctor can’t give us a definitive count of them all. As we were watched the doctor point out the activity on the monitor, it was as if we were privy to the staging ground for the last battle. And yet Andrew remains surprisingly calm. He allows me to fall apart and catches me as I move in and out of the hazy ground of my grief. At any rate, the doctors give him, maybe if he’s lucky, a couple more months. He says his goals are now: to catch the third installment of the Lord of the Rings; to reach Christmas; and to prove the good doctors wrong. The Temodal was always a long shot. In some cases melanoma tumours respond to it and in others it has no effect at all. Andrew falls into the latter category. So there is no point in continuing that chemotherapy. Saying good-bye to Dr. Forsyth and his team was difficult as we have pretty much exhausted all the medical options the cancer centre can offer. Their care and compassion for Andrew has been unsurpassed. It was the beginning of the final good-byes. And so, despite Andrew’s outward well-being, the melanoma continues to plot its deadly course. Yesterday’s report signals that Andrew is gearing up for his greatest battle to date. With this in mind, my brave and gentle husband continues to tackle his “to-do” list (which just keeps getting longer). For example, he has been getting our finances in order and teaching me to manage our investments. We bought and installed new tires for the car yesterday. He finished the fall cleanup on the house and garden. He has been passing on important stuff to the children. The other day I was delighted to hear Andrew teaching Grace the very first song he learned in kindergarten. “My pigeon house I open wide and I set all my pigeons free. They fly all around and up and down and they sit in the tallest tree.” Grace has been singing it ever since. Andrew wants to start videotaping his favourite stories for the kids and his grandchildren and have me record some of his experiences in developing nations. As for me, I begin to embrace the sorrow and suffering that have become my ‘new best friends’. Like those pigeons from Andrew’s childhood song, we open the door and let fly the dreams and adventures we had hoped to share together in the years ahead. These now ascend beyond our grasp to roost somewhere far beyond my nest. This transition is as measurably painful as the depth of our love. Do we still need your prayers? More than ever! And rest assured that God is answering. Pray that Andrew’s outward well-being continues to confound us all for a long, long time. Pray that we will stay deep within the hold of that ‘ship of grace’, come what may. To those of our dear friends who knew Andrew in the various seasons of his life, now might be the time to send him any favorite memories or messages you have for him. On a closing note, Andrew’s posting, “Death where is your sting?” will be printed in the Sunday November 2nd edition of the Calgary Sun, in the comment section. Judy |
"Death, where is your sting?" |
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| Sunday October 26, 2003 09:10 PM | |
"Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth...put out my hand and touched the face of God”. Ah, the epic words of John Gillespie Magee, Jr., a brave young World War II airman who died in combat at the age of 19. His thoughts seem to capture those rare times we have all experienced...when for just a brief moment, our minds have strayed from our earthly pursuits, reached out beyond and almost by chance touched heaven. Touching the face of God is something that has been much on my mind lately. I do not have any idea when I will draw my last breath...for the record, I’m currently feeling remarkably well! Yet when one faces a terminal illness such as I have, death becomes a very real part of life and is inevitably part of my thoughts. As Judy mentioned in a previous entry, statistically, those battling metastatic melanoma that has progressed to brain metastases (tumors) have a life expectancy of 3-6 months beyond diagnosis. I’m now 10 months beyond my diagnosis...which is 4-7 months beyond what the statisticians say is my “expiration” date. While I find this quite encouraging, it does remind me of a simple truth. Every breath I take is now undeniably a gift from God. A gentle warning here: as I begin speaking about my journey towards death and dying, my thoughts are entwined with my beliefs in Christ. Bear with me. Many people have asked us how our family is able to demonstrate such peace and courage in the face of such dire circumstances. It’s a good question. Short of a physical miracle, my premature death is inevitable. Shouldn’t this frighten me out of my boots? There is really only one answer I can give to this question and, as mentioned, it is inextricably linked to our faith. As a Christian, I do not see death as the end of the book, but rather as the transition to a whole new and vastly more exciting sequel, just waiting to be written. I guess it comes down to my ardent belief that there is a much bigger plan at work here...one that indeed breaks beyond the surly bonds of earth and ultimately reconnects me with my Maker. It is a realization that we are more than just physical bodies treading the earth for a limited period. Our spirits, made in the image of God, long for our Creator. I do confess, death and what lies beyond is not something I claim to understand fully. How can my human mind hope to comprehend why a 38-year-old man with a wonderful wife and three extraordinary kids must surrender his physical life so soon? As we have mentioned in our writings many times, Judy and I have purposed in our hearts not to allow this journey to become a slow march to death, but rather a celebration of life. Yet how is this really possible in the gritty, daily grind of life - especially one afflicted by terminal cancer? I have found that there is really only one way to make this a reality. Truly celebrating life when you’re staring death in the face is only possible when I am willing to trust Christ with my life, my death, my wife, my kids and their future. It comes down to surrendering that which I cannot control to the one who holds my life tenderly in His hands. ...And yet when I do, I begin experiencing life in a new and profound way. I’m no longer focusing incessantly on when that final breath will occur and what it will be like, but rather on the fact that a larger plan is at work. Without my faith, I believe this cancer would have defeated me long ago and left me to die a broken man. Yet my faith in Christ allows me to face death without fear. I’m not saying that this journey is not marked by profound sadness. My heart breaks when I consider the anguish my family must continue to walk through. Such pain is the price of love. Yet I am confident that God will grant Judy and the kids all the strength, wisdom and comfort they need as they mourn and go on. And it’s not that I’m mad keen on leaving the surly bonds of this earth. Despite the political mess it’s in, I’ve found this planet to be quite a pleasant place to dwell. But as our mother’s will tell us, when we came out of the womb we were none too pleased to be leaving that snug environment and thrust into the comparatively cold world beyond. Didn’t take us long, however, before we warmed up to the place and made it home. As a Christian, I see death in a similar way. We’re very comfortable with this nice, cozy earth - yet eternity lies just beyond. Perhaps life here is just a tiny foretaste of a much grander banquet. With my finite mind, the scenario that has befallen us could be seen as a tragedy. Yet if I allow myself to stretch beyond the physical, escape the surly bonds of earth and touch the face of a loving God, then death has lost its sting. As Robert Browning wrote, “Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp or what's a heaven for?” Your friend, Andrew |
Traditions and the Magic Pudding |
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| Monday October 20, 2003 01:40 PM | |
“Tradition...without it, our lives would be as shaky as a fiddler on the roof,” remarks Tevye wisely during that wonderful Broadway play. Traditions...even simple ones that emerge from deep within our family annals, have an ability to carry forward that sense of history and identity that are so integral to our well-being. Throughout the years, our family has tried to develop many of our own traditions, marking special occasions such as Christmas, Thanksgiving and birthdays in ways that help us appreciate and remember the importance of the event and the person we are celebrating. In the last web journal, Judy mentioned how a special family tradition - the making of the plum pudding - was passed on from me to our eldest son, Michael, and how he proudly created his own first pudding for Thanksgiving dessert. Michael now has a tangible connection to his great, great grandmother (from whom the recipe comes) in Australia. He has already said he will teach his own kids how to make plum pudding when the time comes. As a gift from our family to yours, we’d now like to pass this age-old recipe on to those hankering for a delightful tradition. We were going to include it in the last journal entry, but felt it was appropriate to ask my mother first before releasing this culinary heirloom. She received the recipe from her mother, Kathleen Grace - a wonderful woman of the land. I so clearly remember the steamy, spicy smells that permeated her tiny kitchen - a memory that remains one of the highlights of my childhood. My grandmother, in turn, received the recipe from her mother...and who knows how far it goes back from there. Another of my favourite childhood memories was the reading of a wonderful Australian kids’ book, called “The Magic Pudding”. Within it, a cantankerous pudding with scrawny legs and beady eyes named Albert has the uncanny ability to regenerate himself, no matter how much puddin’ of him is eaten. Oh, that that would be true of our family puddings! So here it is, the Wark Family traditional plum pudding. The ingredients below will make one pudding (in a 7” bowl - serves at least 8 people). We usually make them up in batches of fours and freeze them until needed. Ingredients: 1/4 lb raisins 1/4 lb sultanas 1/4 lb currants 3/4 cup grated apple (or 1/4 pound dried apple rings) 1 oz mixed peel 1/4 lb flour 1/4 lb bread crumbs 1/4 lb suet, margarine or butter 1/4 tsp salt 1/4 tsp baking soda 1 tsp mixed spice 1 tsp orange rind 4 oz sugar 2 eggs 1 1/3 cups milk Method: Mix all dry ingredients & apple together; Rub shortening into flour; Add beaten egg, milk & dissolved soda; Let combined mix stand for a few hours (preferably overnight in the fridge; Pour mixture into a greased 7” bowl (we use stainless steel mixing bowls) (For an extra sense of tradition, we sometimes place old, boiled coins in the pudding just before steaming. Just remember to warn your guests about this before they start eating!) Place greased cheesecloth over the top of the filled bowl; secure firmly by wrapping string around the bowl’s edge. Place in large pot or steamer and steam for 3 hours on a hot stove. Check the steamer’s water levels regularly to ensure steaming process does not run dry; After steaming, allow to cool, carefully peel off the cheesecloth top, run a flat knife around the inside of the bowl and transfer the pudding to a plate. The pudding can then be cooled, bagged and frozen or eaten that night. Just before serving, re-heat the pudding by steaming or microwave. To flambé the pudding: fill a large steel spoon with brandy, heat the spoon with a candle or matchstick. It’s ready to pour over the pudding when the brandy ignites with a blue flame in the spoon. Pour it generously over the pudding. Accompany the pudding with whipped cream or vanilla custard. We hope that a few adventurous souls will give this plum pudding a go. I guess it’s just another way we feel connected to you. So steam up the kitchen and know that this traditional recipe comes from our family to yours, with love. Somehow, I can imagine Tevye himself being quite comfortable joining us at the table, helping himself to a third serving. Andrew |
Giving Thanks |
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| Tuesday October 14, 2003 11:30 AM | |
This weekend, Andrew passed on a tradition that has been in the family for several generations. Using a recipe that dates back to Andrew’s grandmother, the mantle of making the plum pudding has now landed squarely upon Michael’s shoulders. Surrounded by bags of currants, raisins, sultanas and mixed peel, Michael weighed out the ingredients, rubbed the butter into the spiced flour, grated the apples and added the orange rind. He let the batter set overnight and then Andrew showed him how to grease the bowls, fill them with batter embedded with a few lucky coins and then seal them with cheesecloth. For three hours on Monday morning, the house was drenched with the spicy smell of steaming puddings. We ate one of the puddings at the conclusion of our Canadian Thanksgiving feast yesterday. Andrew still held the honour of liberally flaming the pudding with brandy, but Michael’s face was the one aglow when everyone at the table congratulated him on the best tasting pudding yet to be served. We have so much to be thankful for. Andrew and I met with a melanoma oncologist on Friday. She recommended no additional chemotherapy (other than the Temodal) regarding the further spread of the melanoma into Andrew’s lungs and other parts. Her reasoning is that it would only make Andrew miserable and that there would likely be no benefit. The doctor also said that statistically the life expectancy of patients with metastatic melanoma when presented with brain tumours ranges from three to six months. The news that Andrew is still going strong nine months after diagnosis was, in a strange way, comforting to us as we again realized how much everyday now is a bonus. For all of us, everyday is a gift to be thankful for. Last week Andrew and I made our first foray to the funeral home to begin making the necessary arrangements. Before we entered the building, we promised each other not to make any references to Monty Python or the television series “Six Feet Under”. However, when the receptionist asked us for the name of the deceased, Andrew could not help but state, “It’s me and I’m not dead yet!” I close with one more very important note of thanksgiving. On Friday a crew from Andrew’s office at the university came over and raked up over 40 bags of leaves, cleaned the gutters, weeded and mulched the gardens and painted the fence. Our heartfelt thanks to Roman, Vicki, Ken, Greg, Dennis, Latha, Leslie, Denise and Mark. With many thanks, Judy |
That's Amoré |
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| Thursday October 09, 2003 07:30 PM | |
I saw a chain-link fence yesterday. The wind held the brown leaves against it like prayers pressed to a wailing wall. The leaves are falling fast now. Caught in the updraft they dance like dervishes. I squint, trying to see the spaces between their descent - as if I could see the power that can strip a tree that was so lush just a day ago. The pressure cooker is hissing gently, filling my senses with the savoury smell of lamb stock mixed with barley and rosemary. That is all that remains of the little feast I threw together for Andrew and the kids last evening. The repast included: pesto linguine; roasted eggplant, zucchini, and mushrooms; marinated lamb; olives and chili peppers; feta and brie cheeses; and fresh pita bread. We gathered at the table and after giving thanks, the kids started hubbing and bubbing about the fact that there was no silverware set out. “Tonight we eat with fingers,” I declared. There was a moment of stunned silence before David said, “Are you serious?” I answered by lifting a portion of eggplant and feta to Andrew’s mouth. It took half a second before David and Grace sunk their faces into plates piled with pasta. Sloppy grins and giggles erupted all round as Andrew filled my glass with a spicy, Australian shiraz. Michael tasted his first pickled jalepeno pepper and quickly washed it down with a glass of milk. His face puckered and his lips tingled and then a huge smile slowly spread across his face. I liked the fact that it was a school night and we didn’t need a cause to celebrate. Just being alive was reason enough. As Dean Martin crooned, “That’s amoré” in the background, I looked, through the warm glow of the candlelight, at my dear husband and family and realized what a blessed woman I am. Outside the spirit continues to lift all of our prayers to the heavens. Like the wind making the leaves dance, Andrew and our family are caught up in the heart of those prayers. I close tonight’s entry with the text of Michael’s speech for the Terry Fox Run at Sir John A MacDonald Junior High today. Andrew and I listened and were swept away by the simple eloquence of our son, talking to his peers about why he was running. A few minutes later, as Michael ran the course himself, his fellow students came up to him and started giving him their popsicle sticks (markers for each lap they had run). Michael told me they wanted to honour him because he had done an honourable thing. It was a grand gesture. I saw God at work today, taking a wretched situation and somehow in the middle of it, allowing Michael to take part in changing lives for good. P.S. We are collecting photos from Andrew’s history for a video scrapbook. If you knew Andrew during his time in Hawaii, the Philippines, Belize, Hong Kong or Australia, and can access any memorable photos, please send us a copy in a jpeg or e-mail us for the postal address. Hi. In case you don't know me, my name is Michael Wark. I'm going to speak about cancer, and how it has affected me, and my family's life. Terry Fox was a young man who was diagnosed with cancer in 1977. He died in 1981. In a similar way that cancer affected Terry Fox's life, cancer has also had a great impact on my life. So here is what happened. Back in January, my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It is a form of cancer called Metastatic Melanoma. We're not sure how long he had it before he was diagnosed, but by the time we found out, it had reached stage 4, which means there was pretty much no hope for recovery. Back then, the doctors said my Dad would probably not make it until Christmas. The weird thing about cancer is that it is so subtle. I bet half of the people here at the moment didn't know my dad has cancer, or what is going on in my life. My family and I have gone through an incredible journey over the last ten months. I have gone on a trip back to Australia, had some great friends to support me, and had LOTS of relatives visit this summer. Although Terry Fox died almost a decade before I was born, he has had a great impact on me and many other people's lives. A lot has been done to try and get rid of cancer since he died, but unfortunately, not enough to save my Dad. This is why I am running. To find a cure for all kinds of cancer. Thank you.  
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Answers to prayer |
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| Sunday October 05, 2003 08:05 PM | |
This past week, Andrew experienced such severe headaches that we had to break out the morphine. He said the pain was worse than the initial headaches which first alerted us to the cancer back in January. The tumours are kicking up a such a fuss that Andrew is once more taking steroids to control the pressure of their oedema. This is discouraging as he has been off the Decadron for the past three months and has been looking and feeling well. We travel through such uncharted waters with this disease. I honestly thought that the degree of Andrew’s suffering on Tuesday was an indication that we could lose him. On Wednesday, with an hour to spare before an appointment, I found myself at the mall, doing the ridiculous - trying on dresses for the funeral. I even called and made an appointment for us to see a funeral director. But God sends us greater grace. Andrew’s homecare palliative nurse came to visit on Thursday and she assured us that cancer patients rarely die of acute pain. How were we to know this? When the time comes, we are more likely to see a slowing down which may include an overwhelming fatigue, the gradual loss of normal functions and appetite. As horrible as this all sounds, it was comforting to know that Andrew isn’t dying yet. There is still time. While we were at the cancer clinic, the doctors reported that the lungs are showing more defined evidence of tumour growth. Over the past weeks, a cyst has appeared on what could be a lymph node and a new mole developed which has a distinct look of melanoma. These things all indicate that the cancer is progressing. Tomorrow, (Monday) Andrew will meet with another oncologist to discuss whether another course of chemotherapy (interferon) would help slow the growth of the cancer in these other areas. As we consider any palliative treatments, please pray that we will have the wisdom to decide only on that which will extend the quality of his life. There is a cost involved with each opportunity. This has been a rough week emotionally and physically. There were moments when I wasn’t sure how much more we could bear. At the same time, we received several e-mail letters from friends, we may have never meet, who have read the web journal. I’ve included excerpts from a few of the letters which really strengthened us during this time:
I just wanted to write a few words to you. I lost my father
to lung cancer last year. It was quite sudden and a very tough
experience. I learned my own lessons about living a fuller life
and enjoying the time I have with those I love. I had about two
weeks to visit with my dad after we learned of the cancer and
watched him slide downhill very fast. I came home tonight cranky because of a sore throat and a cold. Thank you for reminding me that there is a difference between living and actually being alive. Thank you for squeezing every last drop out of life. I have no idea why I am writing, yet I feel strangely compelled to tell you that I care and that I am praying. (Jason)
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| March-Feb | January